The Wicked Witch in the Gingerbread House
by NotMarge
Summary: A lost little girl. A wicked witch. And a gingerbread house. Once upon a time . . .
1. Wicked Witch in the Gingerbread House

I do not own the Brothers Grimm stories.

And this is not actually that anyway. Not quite.

The Wicked Witch in the Gingerbread House

* * *

The child is lost and well alone.

Deep in the dark and dangerous wood.

She can turn around, back the way she came.

But that is not her path now. Though she does not yet know it.

She has wandered far for such a small child, blond hair dirty and astraggle. Sky blue eyes, leaking tears.

Whether by scent, or calling, or sheer random luck, or maybe the strange cat she follows, she happens, after hours of hours of steps of fading hope, to come upon the small clearing.

The break in the trees, the silver lining in her looming cloud.

And there it is.

A magical place, a thing of beauty and perfection and wonder and glory.

If naught else, to a child who has never before beheld its splendor.

The candy cottage.

Gingerbread fitted walls and white frosted gumdropped lined roof.

Windows and door perimetered in marshmallow.

Candy cane path girders and lollipop lampposts.

All in all, every lost and lonely child's fantasy in the sugar dusting.

Drawing in the lonely little lass from her pitiful, aimless wandering.

Dirty, bruised, tear-soaked thin face gazing in a bewilderment at the glory laid out before her.

Stepping forward tentatively, hesitation learned well from swinging fists and shouted admonishments.

But drawn, drawn, nevertheless, toward the curious abode adorned and carved and structured completely out of all the rare and exquisite confectionary delights a child's blackened, swollen, red-rimmed eye could behold.

Siren call of the sweet toothed, lost, hungry child.

Just as it is meant to.

Draw the unassuming, vulnerable one in to the waiting clutches of . . .

"Good eve, dear child. Art thou lost?"

. . . the hook-nosed, green skinned witch.

* * *

The crone is old, wrinkled and withered.

And not really green skinned so much as first thought.

Moreover, a being of the wood so completely enveloped by the nature of her surroundings that she simply emanates them from her very core.

Reflecting them even as light through the sun dappled leaves.

Thinning, white hair caught up and hidden away under an old, worn, black cap.

Fittingly topping the woman herself, adorned neck to wrist to ankle in cloth of gray.

Overlay with a long, dusty black apron.

Feet throughly booted and laced.

Body rail thin and still wiry with daily chores of domesticity.

All of these things, the child senses and absorbs and accepts because they simply are and not up for discussion.

For she is alone. And hungry.

'Art thou lost?' had been the presented question and the child simply nods her affirmation in wide-eyed wonder and more than a hint of disquiet.

But disquiet and lingering fear are the child's only bread and butter, both figuratively and sometimes, when times were especially tough, literally.

And so she simply accepts this new danger into her fragile existence.

Having never really known safety at all since swaddling clothes.

"Speak up, child, my ears dull with age."

"Aye, lost."

Thin, reedy voice.

So young. So fearful. So alone.

And the witch herself, as well, is famished.

"And a bit peckish too, I'll warrant?"

Affirmative nod, no strength in her spirit for brave untruths.

"Well then, come into my home, dearie," welcomes the witch. "And we'll see if we can put some meat on those bones."

Turning, the old woman hobbles toward the cottage, front door opening into the maw of the darkness within.

And the child, shaking like a brittle, desperate leaf in a rising gale, follows.

* * *

**This story would not be without the Pinterest prompt which inspired it.**

**So thanks to whoever posted it, I haven't slept in four days. ;)**

**Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. The Filling Stew By The Fire

I do not own the Brothers Grimm stories.

And this is not actually that anyway. Not quite.

The Wicked Witch in the Gingerbread House

The Filling Stew By The Fire

* * *

It isn't actually very dark inside.

But to come in from without is wont to require an adjustment of vision.

Especially when lightly spun sugar adorns the outside of each of the scant windows, filtering light through a filament of wispy confectionary.

The inside of the candy coated cottage is muted, peaceful.

Stone inner walls seeming to absorb sound as well as warmth.

Naught but quiet gurgles and blurps coming from the bubbling broth near the hearth.

No large, black, magic-ladened cauldron upon the blazing logs, no.

But instead a rather ordinary, medium-sized pot hanging from the hook within the ingle.

And other sounds.

Slurping. Appreciative slurping.

For seated at the solidly built oaken table, is the witch upon a cushioned chair.

Spoon in hand, wooden bowl steaming with succulent morsels.

Of potato, vegetables, and herbs.

Into which a crust of homemade, rustic bread is here and there dipped.

The witch looks up from her simple sustenance.

Across the table.

At the child.

A cup of fresh water drawn from the mountain-fed spring sits near her right hand.

Crystal clear and cold.

Clean and refreshing.

It is as good and simple in its practicality and design as the stew itself.

The stew the child, hungry and lost, slurps with delight.

So ardently, in fact, that she is careless in a moment.

And, as young ones are prone do from time to time, clumsies herself.

Knocking the cup of liquid to the floor of the cottage.

The water to spill and splash.

The cup to clatter and chip upon the stones.

The sound is loud in the stillness, the breaking of the witch's cup.

Louder still, though the quieter sound, is the child's gasp of dismay.

Dropping metal spoon into bowl in instant dismay.

Tiny, trembling hands clamping over downturned mouth.

Cloudy blue eyes wide with fear and darting helplessness.

Knowing punishment is to come, must come, for such horrid error.

The scene, or suchlike, having been replayed over and over many a time before, not here in the deep wood, no.

But out in the wider world.

And the hoveled home.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"

A whispered whimper of apology, plead for mercy.

Helpless in tone, prayed in hopelessness.

For how could a crooked, ugly, old woman in the deep, dark wood be expected to stay her hitting hand, prove more merciful than the familied, inconstant man left behind in the homestead hovel?

And the witch, noticing all, suspects everything but says naught.

Simply leverages off the chair, crouches down.

And silently retrieves the chipped drinkware.

"I'm sorry!" the child gulps out again, biting lips still sore from the last backhand.

The witch, replying not at all, rises from her hunch.

Taking great care to make no sudden movements at all, especially not near the stricken child.

Slowly and with a great deliberation of easy movements.

Wipes the cup with a soft rag.

Refills it with more cool water.

And resets it before the still trembling child.

Chip side away from tiny, easily damaged lips.

And resumes her seat with such a calming air as so the child's sickly hammering heart begins to slow and ease.

After a number of minutes, during which the stew cools and the witch observes, the child speaks.

"You . . . you are not vexed with me?"

The witch considers what fear drives so young child of no more than seven winters.

And replies.

Scratchy voice somewhat softer than before.

"'Tis but a chip, child."

Quiet for a moment, then the conclusion only the youth of simplistic thinking would draw.

"Will you repair it with magic?"

Hint of a smiles touches the woman's lips.

"It need not be repaired. The chip is not ruining of the whole."

The thought too big for a child to entirely grasp is nevertheless considered and the tendrils of a new order of thinking begin to take tentative root.

* * *

The child's belly, full of warming broth and nourishing nutrients, lulls her into a drowsiness that must be born of witch's magic.

Or, more simply, encroaching exhaustion and diminished anxiety.

Head drooping at the table, she is gently shaken out of her stupor by a age-ached hand upon her bony shoulder.

"Take thyself to the rug, child. Rest near the fire."

Guided, not unkindly, to the hearth, the child does as bade.

Curls herself upon the rug, a rare gift from another child in the far past.

Child then grown come back for a visit and gratitude of the saved and rescued.

A child, not of the woods nor the woman. But belonging all the same.

A rug from distant lands, stitched and sewn with intricate designs and inlay with gold thread.

A rug, the grown one says, shy smile upon his gentle face, to make the floor a softer sleep for another child.

And the witch, mystified and curious herself, allows the grown boy to spread it out along the floor in front of the laid hearth.

And quietly thanks the boy of whom she feels so fond.

Before offering a similar bowl of broth and vegetable.

And unchipped cup of water.

There, once more, at the table of requirement.

The table she now clears and cleans, ready for the next necessity.

Preparations complete, the witch sits herself down in her rocker.

Shawl wrapped close to the chill.

And rocks well into the night.

Eyes upon the child.

Bruises lay upon the girl's skin, marring the soft flesh. They are tellingly patterned and discolored with various shades of blue, green, and yellow healing.

The witch watches.

Considers.

And rocks.

* * *

**Well, I don't know if anyone else likes this but I do so I'm going to continue it. :)**

**Thanks for reading if you are.**


	3. Life Unfettered By Fear

I do not own the Brothers Grimm stories.

And this is not actually that anyway. Not quite.

The Wicked Witch in the Gingerbread House

Life Unfettered By Fear

* * *

The chores are many and long, even for such a simplistic life as the witch.

She sees no reason to complain, for it is the life she has chosen for herself.

Though after a light break fast of biscuits and butter, she drafts the child to help as well.

The morning air is chill, morning dew still wet upon the land, as they move from house to back grove.

Familiarity here in practicality and animal husbandry the child knows well.

The chicken coop, eggs in the straw.

The goat hutch, thick, white milk filling the bucket.

The garden, hearty things like beets and potatoes, stubbornly growing themselves in the cultivated dirt.

An apple tree, a pear.

Beehive buzzing at a distance.

Outdoor open brick oven and natural tree stump table, rickety chair, fire stoked on only the rarest, most needful of occasions.

The outhouse, as it were.

Moved now and again for freshness.

All in all, quaint and homey.

And quiet.

Birds chirping in branches, calling for mates.

Squirrels chasing each other, skirmishes in the branches.

And, of course, the cat.

Languid in the warming air.

Yellow eyes electric and intelligent.

As it appears to care not for the toiling humans.

Rough, pink tongue grooming smooth, the luxurious black coat.

"The cat. Is it a . . . familiar?" the child, deeply educated in fanciful tale and legend, inquires.

The witch responses without embellishment or preamble.

"'Tis only a cat."

And they continue on.

The witch.

"Careful there, child. The weeds will come, stay the plant."

And the child . . .

"Aye, mistress."

. . . adjusts accordingly.

* * *

The day moves thusly, chore appointed and tasked and done.

The rest is well deserved.

And the afternoon . . .

"Forage forth for blueberries, child. And step lightly in the forest."

. . . brings planned separation.

"Aye, mistress."

She subtly directs the child toward civilisation, toward peoples whom she knows are safer than those run from.

And leaves the choice to the child.

* * *

Who returns.

"I found some blueberries."

And earns a whiff of a smile from the witch.

"And some of them did find your mouth as well."

And the child beginning to falter, sees the smile.

And her own purple-ringed mouth turns up.

"They are ripe. I checked to ensure thusly."

* * *

It is evening now of the first full day.

The herbs and potatoes and broth once again warming within the belly.

"The path home lies to the way of the sundown, child."

The child has found an abandoned, injured baby squirrel and is feeding it with her pinky finger dipped from a small bowl of precious goat's milk.

The witch, knowing the healing of self with healing of others, allows this.

Even unto pressing the scrap of cloth for its wrappings into the child's grateful hand.

Though without mother, the abandoned woodland soul will be dead by morning.

The child, concentrating on the task she has set for herself of caring for one more helpless than she, nevertheless, hears.

And in the light of the fire, darkness overtakes her youthful features.

"Aye."

Continued rocking as the witch looks on.

"I would that you travel there if you may."

Continued caring, child does not look up.

"Aye."

And then there is quiet.

After a fashion.

The witch rocks.

The child cares.

The squirrel suckles.

Finally . . .

"I would to stay. You are kind and not cruel."

A quiet, not quite pleaded, admittance.

And the witch rocks.

And does not respond.

* * *

The squirrel has died.

Passed away in the night.

The child, the girl, cries a little.

But not much.

She is, after all, a being of the harsh world.

And knows . . .

"My mother died as I was sleeping too."

. . . that life is loss.

"We buried her in the yard."

The witch, eyes quiet and considering, gaze upon the child holding the dead, still thing.

And speaks.

"A spade hangs in the goat shed."

And they go.

* * *

The earth is broken.

The dead laid to rest.

Earth replaced, mounted a little higher.

At least for now.

And then, as the day has moved on slightly ahead of them, the work continues.

Vegetables, bees, fruit.

Eggs.

The cat.

"Why do you do these things with your hands?" The child inquires hesitantly as the hens lose their oval-ensconced young.

The witch's wrinkled face but hints a touch of mirth.

"I do not do them with my hands. You do."

The child pauses.

Sneaks a glance.

Beholds the smallest slivers of smile.

And finds childish delight.

Wonder.

The witch, relenting, adds another offering of wisdom.

"Things that may be done with the hands and mind should be thusly. Only without those means might we seek otherwise."

And they continue on.

* * *

**Are you enjoying? I don't know. But I'm enjoying.**

**Thanks for reading! :D**


	4. Intruder in the Glade

I do not own the Brothers Grimm stories.

And this is not actually that anyway. Not quite.

The Wicked Witch in the Gingerbread House

Intruder In The Glade

* * *

They are before the house, eve once more drifting in upon them, the glade of the witch dimming to the eye.

The witch and the girl, they stand, looking.

As there grows the reverberation of stomping feet, echo of shouted voice.

"Linnea! Linnea, where are you?!"

The child is caught still, quite nearly vibrating in place.

"Linnea!"

And then he is there in the clearing.

A man.

Tall and husky.

Dark of hair, opposite of the child's wispy blond curls.

Face gruff and grizzled and heavy with rough beard.

Clothes of a workman, of a farmer.

Ax hefted over shoulder.

"Linnea, my daughter, come to me!"

And the child freezes.

The witch does not.

She steps forward toward the girl.

"Hold, good woman! Who are you that keeps my child here in the forest?"

It is not a question. The witch knows what she looks like.

"No good woman," she replies, with flat tone.

The child, during this brief exchange, remains still, stammering in fear.

"I, I, I, I'm sorry, I got lost . . . I sm-sm-smelled . . . sugar. I . . . I . . . found the candy house . . ."

She is shaking, her voice a squeak.

"Candy house?" The man interrupts, expression in a bewilderment. "What do you say? This? 'Tis but a shack!"

He does not see it.

He does not smell it.

"The candy house-"

For it is not for the grown, the aged.

But for the the young, the lost, the alone.

A beacon to draw in those in need of succor, safety.

And magic.

The man squints, eyes flinty.

"It is a shack, child. Do you lie to me? Are you caught under some spell?"

She shrinks back, imperceptibly so.

"No! No, I do not lie-"

The man advances.

"Come you home, Linnea! Come away from this witch. Come with me."

And he advances, large hand out, demanding.

The cat rises from its supine repose upon the ground, hissing at his approach.

And the child shrinks back from the man, movement reflexive and involuntary.

The witch takes another, measured step.

"Get away from her, witch!" the man commands, hefting ax high.

But the final step was all the witch needed, required.

To feel the truth of the man and the child.

The man.

And what he has done.

To the child.

Whom was given to him by life to protect and care for.

The man.

"She came to me," comes the simple reply.

And the man brandishes the weapon once more.

"Let her go!"

And the witch is calm. Her eyes glow green.

"I do not keep her."

As then she shifts only her voice to the girl.

"Do you wish to go with this man, child?"

The child's trembling intensifies, threatening to crumble the her to bits.

"Child?" the witch quieres again, voice blank. "Dost thou wish to leave?"

And the voice, barely a whimper of a whisper.

Replies.

"No. He is cruel. He . . . hurts me."

It is enough for the witch.

That hushed statement.

The man, seemingly frozen in space and time for the barest of moments, reddens in face and fist.

"I do not! Linnea! Come!"

And he advances, heavy hand thudding down upon the child's shoulder like merciless fate.

And freezes.

The child cries out, hunches, hands coming up to protect her pale face.

As the man, face a rictus, does not strike, nor jerk, nor drag.

But stands.

Frozen and found out.

As the hand clenches suddenly upon the child's shoulder.

And the other, knuckles white upon the shaft of the ax.

His eyes bulge out, few remaining teeth bared.

No physical thing can be seen passing between the child and the man.

No physical thing.

But rather, a sensed something.

He groans, the man groans.

And begins slowly sinking to his knees, face a mask of sickened revulsion.

The witch's voice slices through the air of the glade, cold and deadly.

"Go into the house, child. If you would like to stay. Lay under the eaves and be warm. Close thy eyes and sleep deep and easy."

The man has released his grip from the child in his descent.

And the axe.

And now on his knees in the dusty gloom, head in hands.

Sobbing.

The child hesitates.

Turns.

And goes.

The cat follows.

The man lays crumbled on the ground, sobbing in his calloused hands.

The witch waits.

When the cat informs the witch the child is indeed drowsing under the eaves, the necessary sleeping spell taking effect, the witch moves.

As she approaches, man senses her.

And manages to speak.

"What- what- spell did you cast upon me, woman?"

Her voice is naught more than a whisper into his ears.

"You saw through her eyes. Felt through her skin. Listened through her ears. Tasted through her tongue. Smelled through her nose."

He clenches his head with his hands.

"Everything you have done to her, I have put back into you."

The man grinds his teeth, keens as a beast.

"And now you will harm her no more. You will be gone from her. Never to not return."

The man shakes his head, lurches himself up with a defiant grunt.

"No! No! She is my child! She belong to m-"

But the witch has taken up the ax.

And despite her withered appearance, possesses quite a strong swing.

* * *

The fire is glowing, coal eyes of winking knowing.

The oven hot.

And the pie.

The meat pie is baking.

Rising, puffing.

Succulent, flavorful.

Hearty.

And the witch, the witch is very, very hungry.

Under the watchful eye of the bloated, gibbous moon, the witch, hair undone and flowing wild, leverages the pie from the oven.

She places it there, on the waiting tree stump table.

And lets it cool in the night breeze,

Under the lidless eye of knowing moon.

The wolf pack, silent and black against the night have almost finished their ravenous feast in the glade.

Naught but the crunching of bones and what the witch left them.

She watches them now, the witch, feral hunger gnawing at her own empty belly.

And waits, waits.

At long last, she cuts a generous, flavorful slice with a long, tapered knife, lays it out upon the tray.

And with mouth salivating, the witch begins to eat.

* * *

The wolf pack has done by the time crumbs only remain.

Crept from the glade as silently as they had descended.

The witch, belly full and tight and satiated, tidies the remnants of her baking, her own satisfying indulgence.

And quietly enters her humble abode.

With child and cat under the eaves, she takes herself to bed.

Closes her eyes and sleeps deep and peaceful.

The howls of the wolf pack echoing in her ears.

* * *

**So justice was indeed served. ;)**

**Thanks to the silent readers of this story! I appreciate you.**


	5. Ever After

I do not own the Brothers Grimm stories.

And this is not actually that anyway. Not quite.

The Wicked Witch in the Gingerbread House

Ever After

* * *

If the child were to consider, the witch seems less thin as of late.

Dress less baggy.

Ridges and lines of her wrinkled face softened, cutting less deeply than before.

Hair more iron grey now than snow white. And thicker.

Hands softer, warmer.

Warmer as they brush the child's hair smooth and silky with a wooden comb.

The witch does not speak, but her breath feels light and warm upon the child's neck.  
As the hands brush firm and braid gentle.

The child fears to ask, but pushes through the barrier in her mind nevertheless.

"Will he return for me?"

Silence.

In which the cleansing rain patters down upon the shack.

Soaking the ground, washing away the dirt.

And the blood.

Silence in which the witch's tongue thoughtfully rubs the roof of her mouth.

Yellowed teeth scrupulously cleaned the previous night in the rain barrel outside the scullery.

And then she speaks.

"No. He is gone from you forever, child. You are safe."

The witch continues to brush and braid, fingers more dexterous than in recent years past.

Her heart beats stronger in her chest now, lungs breathe the woodland air easier.

And the world is expunged of one more heartless beast that once lurked and lapped at the spirits of an innocent child.

And then the child speaks.

"Thank you. Grandmother."

The witch allows it.

* * *

The days and nights come and go.

The world turns and the years pass.

In the protective, secret heart of the wood, there stands a candy-spelled house and a glade.

They work together, the girl and witch, the younger learning from the older.

All manner of skill, sewing, cooking, the healing of the body and mind through proper herbs and natural techniques.

The witch teaches the child to read and write and do maths in as such things as the world of man requires.

Provides tutelage for her lightly in regard to reproductive matters in as so far as she knows, when the child's body changes and grows and she becomes a woman of blood.

The child grows strong and confident, misery and grief of her darkest years dulling until they become more lesson than closely held wound.

The girl is beautiful but she is also practical.

And never ever cruel or unkind.

She will not live a perfect, flawless life.

Nor is she, as human, is meant to.

But she will live life and live it well as a carefully counseled Child of Nature.

And all due to . . .

"Farewell, Grandmother. You will always be of my heart and mind."

"As you to me, child. Fare thee well."

. . . the wicked witch in the gingerbread house in the woods.

* * *

**And that's it for that tale.**

**Thanks to Dream Plane and the incomparable DinahRay for so graciously reviewing! **

**Thanks to the silent readers of this story.**

**Happy reading to all and to all a good night!**


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